Gone
by Nightshade Scribe
Summary: The funeral of Finwë, as narrated by his daughter Findis.


**For those who do not know: Although they never made it into the published **_**Silmarillion**_**, Finwë was said to have had two daughters by Indis (a third, Faniel, was later struck). These daughters were Findis (the oldest of Indis' children) and Irimë (between Fingolfin and Finarfin), who was more commonly known by her amilessë, Lalwen. Irimë followed her brother Fingolfin, with whom she was close, to Middle-Earth; Findis stayed with her mother in Valinor. **

* * *

Atar is dead.

_Dead, funeral, corpse_ are all words that I have known about in theory, but never really applied to a person. I have seen animals slaughtered, and of course I know about Míriel, but I never thought that my father would be _dead_, that I would be attending his _funeral_ and seeing his _corpse_ lying on a bier. Whoever prepared his body—I believe it was Fëanáro—did a fine job, taking care to cover the wounds he received at the hands of Moringotto (as my half-brother and the rest of us now call the creature who took my father's life). But despite those efforts; despite the robes of state and the look of peace, Atar is clearly gone.

I still can hardly believe it. Since the Trees were destroyed we have had only night, but I think it has been the equivalent of two days since Atar was slain. It was before the last period of trying to sleep that Fëanáro himself came to our door and, barely looking at Amil, informed us of the logistics of Atar's funeral. Why my half-brother specifically asked for our presence I can only guess. Most likely, it was out of respect for his beloved father: Atar would not have wanted his wife and most of his children to be barred from his funeral, if indeed he had ever considered such a thing.

Likely he had, after losing his first wife. Thinking back, I realize that Atar often lapsed into periods of introspection which he would never speak of. This in itself was odd, for in all other matters he was very frank. I remember when I was three years old, and asked him why Fëanáro hated me and Amil. Atar had taken me on his knee and explained that Fëanáro's Amil had gone to the Halls of Mandos many years ago, and that he was unhappy when Atar married Amil. "I do not think," he had said, "that Fëanáro will ever accept Amil. And trying to befriend him will only make matters worse."

So I had abandoned my attempts, and watched as the same thing happened with my younger siblings: the awe of him, the many attempts to come into his good graces, and the eventual disappointment and acceptance as they were thoroughly snubbed. Arafinwë was affected the least, for he was but three when Fëanáro married—I often wondered if he had wed at such a young age simply to escape us—and saw him only at festivals or at the occasional family gathering.

Perhaps the advantage of not being ever in Fëanáro's shadow is one of the reasons why Arafinwë has always been a merry one. Now, though, his face is more serious than I have ever seen it, and often he reaches up to wipe his eyes. I can feel tears rolling down my own face, and I make no attempt to stanch them. Lalwen moves away from Nolofinwë (carefully stone-faced) and stands next to me. She is crying also, but Amil, standing on the other side of me is not—she stands straight and still and pale as a statue, her eyes never moving from Atar's face.

Fëanáro, standing across from us with his sons and their families, seems not even to be listening as person after person comes forward to speak. Before the funeral began I overheard Maitimo telling Findekáno that immediately upon their return to Formenos, Fëanáro had locked himself in the room with Atar's body and wept for hours. I still am not sure whether or not to believe that. Only once does Fëanáro lift his gaze to look toward us, and (though it is hard to tell in the shadows) I see nothing antagonizing in his gaze; indeed, he seems to have entirely shut down his emotions.

There is a massive crowd present, as would befit the funeral of a king. It seems that all the Eldar have come to pay the King of the Noldor their last respects. Words, words, words, they speak. On for hours, I think, until finally the last speaker finishes his eulogy and turns to the King's eldest son.

Fëanáro steps forward, and all eyes turn to him. In the light, I can now see that his face is tight with grief. He looks around at all of us gathered, and opens his mouth as if to say something. Then he swallows hard and takes one of the torches from its holder. He holds it close to the bier, trailing it around until Atar is wrapped in a ring of fire, then places the torch at Atar's feet and steps back, watching the flames spread.

I pity him, I realize. I at least still have Amil; Fëanáro has now lost both his parents. Curufinwë places a hand on his father's shoulder, but Fëanáro shrugs it off. Curufinwë steps back and takes his wife's hand instead. His wife…my eyes move through the crowd until I find Nerdanel, standing apart from either side of her family. She lifts her head to look at Fëanáro, and their eyes meet for a moment across the funeral pyre. She turns away first.

Then Makalaurë begins to sing. Nobody had planned for it or asked for it, but that is how Makalaurë faces everything that comes his way—with music. I think he is making the lament up as he goes along, but no matter; it is beautiful and it is right for Atar. The tune is simple enough, and gradually everybody manages to join in. We sing on for many minutes, until the last flame has burned out and Atar's body is reduced to ashes.

The torches still burn, but suddenly the darkness seems overwhelming. So does the silence, until I I hear the trees rustle in a wind. A warm breeze sweeps past me, ruffling my hair. Then it catches Atar's ashes and carries them up into the dark, and I sense even more strongly that Atar is gone.

As the crowd begins to disperse, Fëanáro walks to the funeral pyre and stands by the head of it, arms folded, eyes closed. His lips move, but not so much that I can distinguish what he is saying. Suddenly, as if my legs are deciding for me, I find myself moving toward him. "Fëanáro?" I say softly, and he jumps. He says nothing when he sees who has spoken, but stares at me for a minute with those eyes that seem to bore into one's mind. _What do _you_ want?_ his expression says.

"I—I am sorry."

Fëanáro looks no more affected by this stock condolence than I have been and turns back to the pyre. For many long moments he remains silent. Then he says, "As am I."

"Atar"—both the lump in my throat and the sense that Fëanáro does not want to be reminded of our shared blood at this moment makes me swallow—"do you miss him?" As soon as the words are out I feel like a fool for asking about something so obvious.

But Fëanáro simply shrugs. "He is with my mother now," he says. "I suppose he is at peace."

Amil comes up just in time to hear this, and I see her face suddenly go expressionless. Avoiding Fëanáro's gaze, she puts a hand on my shoulder and says, "Come, Findis. We are going now."

Even as she finishes speaking, Curufinwë walks over. He looks as if there is something, none too pleasant, that he longs to tell Amil and me. But he says only, "Atar, do you think it time that we go?"

"We should have gone a long time ago," he says in a tone that for some reason fills me with foreboding. "Perhaps if we had then some would not have had to go."

Curufinwë seems to understand no better than I do. "Atar?"

Fëanáro glances one last time at the blackened wood. "We go!"

_-finis-_


End file.
